A Shilling For A Welshman's Head

Adam the Clerk put down his pen and stared outside. A huge cloud had darkened his chamber and then moved on. Adam had first noticed it blackening the hills over Hawarden as it rode in from the Irish Sea. Now it was passing over the castle of Hope where he sat before it would sweep silently over the Cheshire Plain and away to the Pennines and beyond. From his chamber to unseen hills in one swoop, the cloud was uniting our humble clerk and the wide world he was recording, its path as inevitable in the sky as the events unfolding on the ground.

When the cloud first disturbed him Adam had been engrossed in trying to reconcile his figures. He needed the break engendered by its passing. He was tired. The figures had stopped adding up. He was not surprised. Master James, in charge of rebuilding the castle at Hope, would not be surprised either but, unfortunately for Adam, Master James would almost certainly vent his wrath upon the clerk who would have to return to his chamber, like a beaten dog, to attempt yet again to reconcile the irreconcilable. It was hard work at the best of times and this was not the best of times.

Edward, the king himself, was due at the castle very soon to review the work being done. He was just two miles away with his troops on the Welsh border, preparing for the final drive against the Welsh whose rebellion had caused poor Adam to be incarcerated in this God-forsaken castle in the first place. The trouble was that Edward had wanted this castle rebuilt but was now taking the money he had allocated to the project to feed his huge army. Like Master James and Adam, Edward knew the figures would not add up and that is why he would beat the Master of Works who would beat our unhappy clerk.

It was rumoured that Edward was going to make a gift of this castle to his young queen, Eleanor. “I hope she enjoys it”, muttered Adam to himself, sourly.

He looked again at his last entry and continued his writing, “To Haudekine, Woddenette and the Scotchman, for bringing in two Welshmen’s heads, 2/- of the king’s gift. To Adam de Pulleford and his fellows, for bringing in one Welshman’s head, 12d”.

“A week’s wages for bringing in one of these dirty Welshmen’s heads! No wonder I can’t find the money for labourers and masons”, thought Adam, “the money’s being paid to scoundrels like these for escapades like that”.

Edward’s war had brought all sorts of bounty hunters to Hope; war-hardened English barons with their equally war-hardened retinues and Welsh chieftains with their fiercely hard-bitten dogs of war in tow. It was the war which had brought the scruffy “Scotchman” with his unpronounceable name. He had been captured on one of Edward’s campaigns far away in the North but had somehow avoided losing his own head and was busy enjoying the rewards to be had from relieving other people of theirs. Adam remembered him being very happy with his handful of coins. “I just hope he lives long enough to enjoy them”, mused Adam.

If only young Adam had known what was happening at that very moment away to the west. For the cloud which had disturbed him in his castle chamber had, seconds before, passed over Moel Siabod, a mountain whereon, if Adam had been able to transport himself, he would have seen the recently remunerated Scotchman now paying the price for his greed. For the Welsh, driven hard by the vanguard of Edward’s force were fighting at home and they were taking no prisoners. And the Scotchman was swinging gently in the mountain drizzle, his neck broken, his coins on the grass.

Rhys stared at the body as it twisted slowly this way and that in the cold Snowdonia air. He was feeling satisfied with his day’s hunting. Rhys, and the band he had gathered around him, were all tough men, coarsened from coarse material by the ruthlessness of the times. It was a bad time to be Welsh except, briefly, for Rhys today.

Rhys knew nothing outside of the wild, wet world in which he dwelt. He knew nothing of Scotland. The dangling corpse was the only Scotsman he had ever seen and even England, a mere six miles to the east of his farm in Hopedale, was somewhere to be avoided except at night when it’s fat cattle and stinking pigs could be stolen, butchered and dragged home.

Five years before, Edward had invaded Wales and forced the Welsh prince, Llewelyn, to confine his rule to the lands west of the River Conwy. With Edward on that campaign had been Dafydd, Llewelyn’s younger brother, hoping to profit from Llewelyn’s inevitable defeat. Foolish Dafydd. For all of his treachery all he had gained was Hopedale, a few acres right on the Cheshire border. There he had inherited peasants like Rhys and had built himself the castle in which Adam now moped.

Lying on the wet mountain grass, Rhys dwelt on the subsequent events which had both confused and eventually dispossessed him. He had liked Llewelyn and had both farmed and fought for him through loyalty toughened by admiration. Llewelyn was a bear with the heart of a dragon. Dafydd was a mongrel with the heart of a snake. Even worse, Rhys had heard rumours that he might soon have had a third lord.

“Who?” he asked his wife when she returned from the market in Mold. He looked at her face, lined with worry and not a little fear. Fear both with her news and the consequences of giving this news to her husband.

“Richard Venables”, she said.

“Venables”, repeated Rhys, thinking hard. The consequences of this development could be catastrophic for both him and the other peasants on Hope Mountain. The raids which they had conducted to supplement their thin diets had been mostly at Venables’ expense. Rhys and his family could soon be homeless and landless.

His wife was lucky that day. Her news had been such a hammer blow that Rhys struggled for a while to recover from it. And when he did recover he ran immediately to his brother nearby and soon, with all the other men of those parts he had sat through the night, analysing the possibilities.

Rhys was still Dafydd’s man and when Dafydd lost a legal battle with Venables he sent out a call to arms. Rhys answered immediately. Soon, there grew in him an excitement which transcended fear. Rhys was a fighting manfrom his black, broken-nailed toes to his thick, curly crown. He was tall for a Welshman and very lean and tight. He had loved war ever since his first raid on a wealthy Cheshire hall; the smell of burning wood, the smell of burning flesh and the screams of those whose flesh it was had become the spitting backcloth to his life away from the dull slavery of his peasant existence.

But Rhys’ loyalty was not just to Dafydd, derived as it was through birth and pragmatism. He had another loyalty to the small band, eleven in number, who sat with him now.

He looked again at the Scotchman hanging there. As the Welsh troops had retreated deeper and deeper into the forests of the west, so the fighting had become uglier and more confused. Dafydd and Llewelyn’s forces were disintegrating rapidly and Rhys’ band, hiding now near Dolwyddelan had become separated from their compatriots. Of Llewelyn, Dafydd now knew little. Rumour was that he was a long way south, desperately trying to draw the Welshmen of Brecon more heartily into the fray. Rhys spat on the ground. He had no time for the vacillating men of Brecon.

It was getting late. Rhys and his little band wrapped blankets around their tired bodies and lay down in the shadow of the corpse. It was a cold night, yet there could be no fires. The English were far too close. Rhys had the evidence above his head. Tomorrow, they must try to cross the forest and take shelter in the castle of Dolwyddelan.

As he slipped into a cold, fitful sleep images of the last few fighting months flitted, like vindictive bats, through his mind. He saw himself and his brothers setting off at night through the bracken and mud to join Dafydd in his castle

When he’d arrived at the castle flames were flickering and shuddering from the torches of men like himself making their way up the slope to collect at the castle gate. As the lights pooled they revealed the faces of bitter men looking towards their bitter leader. A few words were spoken before this bitterness flowed down the hill and towards Hawarden, an English castle ten miles north.

On that night of 21st March, 1282 Dafydd was angry. Far to the west, Llewelyn was angry. What happened next would make Edward angry too.

How long would it take a band of men to traverse ten miles of swamp and woodland on this moonless windy night? To the unsuspecting garrison at Hawarden this was a significant calculation for that length of time and distance was all that separated them from their Maker.

Rhys knew these paths well. He walked, almost ran, at the head of the party. No moon, no shadows, only the calling of the owls to guide him relentlessly on. Somewhere behind was Dafydd and, around him, a few dozen men, lightly armed, blackened and silent. Occasionally, a new band would join them until, by the time they reached Hawarden, their numbers had more than doubled. And still, they had not been noted. Like stoats in a chicken run their presence would only be felt when they reached their quarry’s throat.

The huts of Hawarden huddled around their protecting castle. These were English huts and, as the leading troops slid through the hamlet with Rhys at the fore, those following lit their torches and flowed through every gap and doorway, putting the peasants to the sword and their hovels to the torch before running on and joining Rhys, then swarming over the castle walls. So ill-prepared was the small garrison, so certain of their safety with an army at Chester just six miles away that they had left doors unbolted and swords sheathed. Within minutes their bodies lay slumped and broken on the castle floor.

The flames from the burning huts flew upwards until their glow could be seen for many miles. They sent a message to Wales. They sent a message to Chester

Soon, the whole country went up in flames. Llewelyn had no choice but to join his brother and call his men out. Welsh armies took revenge from the Lleyn to Llandeilo. It was as if somebody had kicked a gigantic hornets’ nest. Rhys and thousands like him stung the hated invaders wherever they found them. Rhys’s sword arm ached with the swinging and stabbing. After Hope, he and his band ambushed a handful of English settlers hiding in the woods above Basingwerk Abbey on the banks of the Dee. It was a good night; the Welshmen leapt down from the trees, cutting down the menfolk before taking whatever they could. They went off with all that they could carry, which didn’t include the women who were left weeping where their husbands’ and sons’ mutilated bodies lay.

However, these lightly armed soldiers did not have the resources to take the bigger castles such as Flint or Rhuddlan, nor could they risk taking on the large English forces which began to close on them. Hope castle was abandoned, it’s walls slighted and it’s well filled in for Adam and his workers to repair later. Edward was slower gathering his troops but, like a slowly awakening god he was soon winding up to strike a blow that would crush Llewelyn once and for all.

Relentlessly and quickly, his armies drove the Welsh guerrillas into the mountains, breaking resistance as if splitting rocks until the vastly outnumbered Welsh fighters had eventually arrived on the shivering hillsides where Rhys was now.

In the hour before dawn a passing fox dislodged the tiniest shower of grit from just above Rhys’ head. It was enough to wake him, watchful even when secure. He looked up at Gronw and Maredudd, standing guard nearby. Gronw motioned that there was nothing to worry about but Rhys was up now anyway. There was travelling to do before dawn. He awoke the rest of the group and, without words or ceremony, they headed into Dolwyddelan.

Rhys led them up the hill over rocks which shone like snail slime in the moonlight. “Damn the moon”, thought Rhys for its light equalled the odds. This was not a game and level odds were risky odds.

But, this struggle was no longer equal. Rhys had not seen a sizeable gathering of Welshmen for weeks now.

Soon, they caught sight of the castle, brooding like a consumptive crow on its lonely perch. A carefully coded signal and the guards on the gate opened up, watchfully, quickly, their spearpoints tracking every move the newcomers made.

Inside the castle, Rhys’ spirits fell at the sorry sight which confronted him. There were a few dozen men within, accompanied by a few women and a handful of mewling children. Everybody looked gaunt and haunted. Everybody stank.

Dafydd, the most haunted of all, glanced up at them and a brief look of thanks passed across his eyes. Eleven proven fighters were a godsend.

Rhys bowed quickly before him.

“You are a lucky man, Rhys Fychan”, said Dafydd, “nothing else makes it through now, not food, not men, not even the very rats. They say the English have three thousand men ringing our hills hereabouts and twice that many foresters cutting down our trees. They are carving away our very innards.”

“It is bad then”, said Rhys.

“It is worse than you appear to know”, Dafydd looked sideways at Rhys.

“Worse? What could be worse?”

Dafydd looked directly at him. “You really have not heard then.”

“Heard what my lord?” Rhys struggled to think of anything which could make their predicament any worse.

“Llewelyn”, began Dafydd, “Llewelyn, my brother, our prince, is dead”.

Rhys sank to his knees as if caught by a punch. But no punch could have stunned him like Dafydd’s words. Rhys knew that Llewelyn was everything. By contrast, the weak and beaten man in front of him was nothing.

Not long ago this same Dafydd had led his men into the mountains alongside English troops. Now, those same troops were hunting him down and Llewelyn’s men had no stomach to fight for this turncoat, cowering exhausted in his bleak refuge. They had slid away in ones and twos as soon as news of Llewelyn’s death had trickled through. They were already back on their farms and in their halls, hoping to gain Edward’s forgiveness and pretending they had never left home. For the handful still at Dolwyddelan it was getting too late to choose.

In fact, within days of Rhys’ arrival, the first English troops were spotted below, moving like wolves in a jerky file towards their wounded prey. Dolwyddelan was just an upturned deer calf to these wolves. They would dismember it and devour it with ease.

There was nothing to do but run. Following cracks in the hills and folds in the woods the broken force searched desperately for any refuge, any lair where the following pack would not smell them. They headed even further west, to Castell y Bere, but, within weeks, thousands of soldiers surrounded it. The tiny band moved on again, circling their pursuers, crawling from cave to cave, begging or stealing from even the poorest cottagers. But, every day their numbers shrank along with their bellies. Rhys’ sword still smote but not with much strength now.

Eventually, only Rhys, Gronw and Maredydd remained with Dafydd. There appeared to be no answer to their predicament. It was the final irony; Rhys the trapper was trapped. Eventually, one last cave, deep in the forests above Dafydd’s old court near Bangor provided their only refuge. Gronw made contact with the local bishop and, from him, obtained a little food to keep them alive and, along with a small amount of meat and berries it enabled another few weeks to pass by. Every day, Gronw, Maredydd or Rhys sneaked out to provide for their lord

The cave was well hidden and maybe, thought Dafydd, there would be a miracle and they could once again rally support in Gwynedd. His spirits began to rise as he dreamt of such a reversal of his fortunes. Was it possible?

“You are quiet my lord”, said Rhys one morning.

“I am thinking,” replied Dafydd. He began tracing something in the dirt with his finger. Rhys wandered over but, as he did so, there was a shout and a band of men rushed in and flung themselves on the horrified Dafydd before tying him up and dragging him outside.

Bound in heavy chains, Dafydd was carted miles away to Shrewsbury where he was executed in the marketplace there.

21st April, 1283: Adam looked out of his chamber in the king’s new castle at Conwy, deep in the heart of Gwynedd. Once again, a cloud had passed over him, bringing a little rain to shine on the castle’s gleaming walls. It had been a long day but Adam had decided to clear up the remaining entries in his latest accounts. He sprinkled sand over the drying ink, before blowing gently and checking, sleepily, his final words.

“To Rhys Fychan of Hopedale and two of his men, for delivery of Dafydd the traitor, one shilling each of the king’s purse.”

“By the Grace of God, Adam de Clerc, at Conwy in the year of our Lord, 1283.